What Ages A Man
by Allonympt
Summary: Gen.Pastor Jim gets unexpected visitors, and John suffers a crisis of faith. The author explores a few domestic stereotypes.


What Ages a Man

Disclaimer – You know, of course that none of this is mine, nor am I making any monetary profit off it.

- Also, this was my very first fanfic ever. Forgive the logical fallacies.

Summary – Gen. Pre-series. Pastor Jim gets unexpected visitors, and John suffers a crisis of faith. The author explores a few domestic stereotypes.

Authors Note: This was written some time ago (late season two) and only now being posted.

"God, Jim, I'm sorry to just drop in on you like this," John scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes and stared at me open faced. He had his duffle slung across his shoulder and there were deeper lines under his eyes. Through the partially open door I could see Dean sleeping with his face mashed up against the passenger window, breathy fog marking his deep breathing.

"No, no, anytime," I held the door open further and John deflated gratefully, brushing by me to drop his bag in the hallway.

"Just until morning," He said, "The boys need a bed to sleep in for a while, then we'll be ready to go."

"Yeah," I should refute that somehow, tell him to stay longer, tell him he obviously needs a bed to sleep in too. But John Winchester goes his own way and charity doesn't sit comfortably with him. We're more than colleagues but possibly less than friends and he's a hard man to talk to at the best of times.

I just have one guest room, a closet size space that I included when I had the addition built on my tiny parish house, but it has enough room for a double size bed and a bookshelf laden with manuscripts, assorted occult and my guilty Stephen King collection. I went in to fix the sheets and John went out to fetch the boys.

Dean stumbled in first, yawning wetly and bleary eyed. He gave me a dopey smile, "Hiya, Pastor Jim."

"Hello, Dean," The boy was taller than I remembered, of the age when they sprouted like beanstalks and began to fill out all the promise of youth. He had to be hard on clothing. I ruffled his hair as he slid past me and gave him a gentle shove towards the bed. He collapsed face down on top of the covers, sprawling bonelessly out.

"I'll move in a sec," he told the pillow, "Jus gimme a sec."

"Don't fall asleep," I warned him, though I was sure John would make sure both boys were undressed and under the covers before he saw to himself. Dean waved me off and I went out to find a pillow for the couch.

The front door was still open and now I could see John leaning into the back seat of the car, coxing Sam gently out. Sam tumbled out without any coordination, letting John tug and arrange him until he was standing sufficiently upright, head drooping towards John's shoulder. John curved a hand around his neck, thumb stroking once over the curve of his jaw, and guided him up the front steps. He nodded to me quietly as they went by and took Sam into the guest room.

I found a pillow for the couch, and pulled the extra quilt off my own bed, dropping it artlessly over the back. The couch wasn't built to stretch a full grown man and John would probably have a hard time sleeping there. I didn't even consider offering him my own bed. It was rare he chose to show up at my door looking for a favour outside work as it was.

I went into the kitchen and started up a pot of water, then turned it off again and got the whiskey out instead. I heard John close the guest room door then go back outside to get the boy's stuff. The car door slammed, then the trunk, and in a moment John was padding shoeless into my kitchen. There was a hole at the big toe on his left sock.

I poured us both a shot and slid his glass across the table. He sat down and gave me one of those slow, inviting smiles that so rarely graced his face.

"Thanks."

We both took a drink.

"Long day," I observed, not commenting either way. John would pick it up or he wouldn't. John snorted into his whiskey glass.

"Long life," he told me in an unexpected fit of black humour. He took another pull, "Just coming down on our way to New Mexico. It was time to leave." He stared at me for a moment, weighing the conversation, weighing my ability to listen and not judge. "I left the boys alone too long, Jim. Sammy's school called social services."

There it was. I muddled it in my head, carefully keeping my face blank for John. I didn't approve of the way John was raising the boys. Nobody who knew the man did. But I had never vocalized my disapproval and I believed whole heartedly that John loved his children.

"So you left." I said neutrally. John looked at me hard but his desire to confess overrode his natural taciturnity.

"Dean pulled them out of there," he said, "they holed up in a motel until I came back and we left that night. Been sleeping in the car for the last few days. I…"

John never talked to me like this. We first met when he came to me to learn exorcisms. The boys couldn't have been, what, ten, six years old then. I gave them Latin primers and took John with me on a few jobs once he got the basics down. John was all business and tentative social skills. One of my young parishioners, burgeoning into bubblegum popping, obnoxious sexuality, had taken an instant interest in him. She followed him around the church when he came in after Sunday worship. He had grown increasingly short with her but his withdrawal seemed to only fuel her attraction, and her heavy-handed attempts at seduction became as obvious as a sledge hammer.

John had been doing odd jobs for me around the church in return for the teaching I was giving him. I was in the book corner of the common room, re-shelving a stack of loans and John was stretched out under the sink, fixing a leak. My young parishioner walked in and obviously didn't see me. She stopped, took a long slow look lingering at the tears in his jeans, then brazenly bent and copped a feel.

John squeaked. There really is no other word for it. There was an awful _thunk_ when John's head hit the underside to the sink and he jerked out of the cupboard, tearing the piping he had been wrenching tight. A spray of brackish water hit John in the face and he sputtered helplessly, eyelashes dripping comically. The young girl leaped backwards, eyes wide, hands curling under her chin as if to deny that had been _her_ hand. The water spray dribbled out, only the catch of water trapped in the curve of the pipe, and they stared at each other.

"I…uhm…I'll just, go, then, uh…yeah." She turned and fled. John turned, started one way, then turned again, clearly shocked. Then he decided to retrieve the wrench from the floor, caught me out of the corner of his eye and flushed bright red.

That night I put a call to the girl's parents. No matter how funny the situation was, it still put John in a vulnerable position. He was essentially a vagrant man and she was growing increasingly audacious. I didn't think she would push things past what I had witnessed that day, but if the wrong eyes witnessed it and took things the wrong way…the next time I saw her in church her chin was held defiantly high, but her eyes faced forward.

So John, when he wasn't acting for a job, had terrible people skills. He was reticent, blunt and often callus. He could be retired to the point that people mistook it for a painful shyness. He was a loner by nature and he lived in a closed society where even there he was a marginalized figure. He spent most of his time alone, even when in the company of his children. He still had to be a parent and not a friend. The isolation made him stranger, more intense, than he might have been. John just didn't chat.

"I was going to be a good father." John said, "I had a list of things…things I would do different from my father. I was going to do it _right_. I was going to be the best Goddamn Dad ever. I was…Mary used to say I thought about it too much. She said it would come naturally to me. She said she _knew_ I would be a good Dad. I didn't have to worry because she knew that." John contemplated his glass for a moment then tossed back the last of it. I silently poured him some more.

"And here I am. Running from Children's Services. _God_."

"You're a good Dad, John," I said with conviction, "They're good boys – great boys. They wouldn't be that if you weren't doing something right."

He gave me the fish eye, a storm brewing on his face, "Don't patronize me, Jim. I know what everybody thinks about me and the way I'm raising this family. I know what you think. And you know what? You're right. You're all right. I'm not blind. Dean is…Dean has no ambitions. He doesn't want anything from the world. That's not, that's not natural in a boy his age. _And I'm not going to do anything about it_. Because he's easier this way. And Sam, Sam is half way out the door and one day he is going to be gone. I know it. I know it, Jim, and I wish to God I could do something about that!" His voice rose steadily and I felt myself growing alarmed, reaching out to hush him before he woke the boys.

"John," I said, helpless, "John…"

"No," He settled under my conciliatory gestures, finishing off the second whiskey glass, "I am not a good Dad. I am an absent father, a domineering father, a Goddamn drill sergeant. I am the kind of father that good, concerned citizens call social services about because I am not doing right by my kids." He poured himself another shot, downing it in one gulping toss.

"I don't know what to say, John." I finally told him, "I'll be honest. I don't believe the way you're raising those boys is right. Children need stability, they need more good things in their lives than they have of bad, and I don't know that Dean and Sam are getting that. _But_," I am amazed at myself, daring to say this in the face of this particular man, "But I believe one hundred percent that you love your children and I know there are things out there – things to fear. Things that might have an interest in your boys."

John jerked and his knuckles went white. I suddenly felt like a mouse under the gaze of a particularly feral cat. John had never outright told me the full story of his wife's death, or his suspicions. I knew he thought it was a demon, and I surmised, given the scarce details he had shared with me, he thought it might have been after Sam, and not Mary. The suspicion alone was enough to keep the boys hidden from the more fringe element of the hunting world, enough to perhaps drive a man into a lifetime of running.

"So I don't know what to tell you. You do what you can, John. You can do no less."

We stared at each other for a long time. I tried to keep my face neutral, but the urge to fidget grew increasingly urgent. Finally John reached over, gently took my own shot glass out of my hands, and tossed back the alcohol. "No use wasting good whiskey," he said and stood up. The chair screeched forcibly back, "Good night, Jim. Thanks for your couch."

I turned the lights in the kitchen off and went to bed. I lay awake for a very long time.

The next morning I awoke abruptly when there was a shout from the guest room. There was the sound of a scuffle, a loud thud, then the door slammed open and feet pounded down the hall towards the bathroom. The boys were definitely awake. I lay in bed for a bit listening to the shower turn on and somebody pound on the bathroom door, then I rolled out of bed and pulled on my robe.

Sam was standing in the hallway in his pajamas and bare feet. He grinned broadly at me, "Good morning Pastor Jim. Thanks for taking us in last night."

"Anytime Sam," I smiled back at him, "I like having company, you know that."

He scratched the back of his head bashfully, then wandered back into the guest room. John was in the kitchen, running a pot of coffee.

"You don't have much for breakfast," He said when he saw me, "I thought we might go out."

"That would be nice," I gratefully accepted the cup he handed me, inhaling the rich scent, "How'd you sleep? I know that couch isn't very big."

John gave me a wry look and cracked his neck. "Fine," he said. It seemed like the black mood from the night before had improved some. I felt relieved. I gave him a more open smile.

"Just let me get dressed," I said, "I suspect I'll have to wait until later if I want any hot water. My old bones just aren't up to fighting it out for the shower." I took my coffee with me.

It didn't take long before we were all piling into John's car, the boys restlessly egging each other on in the back. Dean, despite his so-called maturity, was the worst offender. Sam gave as good as he got but his mood became a little more subdued in the presence of his father. We stopped at a local diner and found a booth by the window.

"Hey, world famous steak omelet," Dean read off the menu, and snapped it shut decisively. He drummed his fingers on the table, looking openly at the other patrons. His eyes lingered on the waitress. She was young, maybe early twenties, and while she wasn't particularly stunning, she carried herself with a confident good cheer that lit up her face. Sam followed his gaze, then swatted at him in disgust, "_Dean_."

I could see John swallowing a smirk behind his menu and when he put it down his face was entirely straight. The waitress came over and we ordered breakfast, only slightly delayed by Dean's artless flirtation. John remained fairly quiet throughout the meal but after they finished inhaling their food, Dean pausing only to poke at Sam about being chubby, I managed to draw the boys into conversation. Dean very animatedly told me about a haunting they had dealt with some months before.

"It was great." He enthused, "It was two ghosts but we totally thought it was one going in. See, this guy had some sort of mental break down, and he tied his wife up and tortured her for days before he finally killed her. The police arrest him but he doesn't go to jail on account of being totally whacko." Dean twirled a finger by his ear, "Instead they give him happy pills and a few years later they say he's cured and let him go. He goes back home, becomes a complete recluse for a couple months, then offs himself. State sells the house to a nice young couple who start complaining about weird things going on in their shiny new home. Anyway, we figured it for the guy, because the wife was cremated but the state buried the guy. But it turns out that while the guy was getting his rocks off torturing his wife, he _cut out her tongue and ate it_. Who the fuck does that? People are totally crazy. Anyway we missed it on the police report the first time around so we didn't realize it was two until Sammy here," Dean kicked his brother under the table, "started screaming downstairs."

"I did _not_" Sam interrupted him but Dean rode right over him.

"So I had to rescue him of course, and once we had it verified, we torched that sucker." Dean smirked at me like a cat in the cream, "It was fun."

"Pyro," Sam muttered.

"I'm sure you didn't scream," I assured Sam, and he flushed heavily.

Dean looked vaguely over my shoulder and his grin widened as he slid out of the booth. "I'm just gonna hit the head," he said and sauntered down the aisle.

"Sam handled himself well," John spoke up suddenly. He turned to directly address his son, "You kept your wits about you. If your gun hadn't jammed, you would have been fine." John cocked an eyebrow at him, "Did you clean your gun properly before we left?"

Sam sunk low in his seat with a guilty expression on his face.

"_Sam_." There was a deep threatening thunder in John's voice, "Rock salt gums up the firing mechanism. You _know_ that. What were you thinking?"

"I was busy," Sam muttered sullenly, "I was just supposed to be the look out. I didn't think I'd need it."

John's face had darkened under the pressure of a barely contained rage. He swallowed hard, "You and I are going to have a sit down tonight, you understand? Until then, I think it would be best if you didn't talk to me."

Sam stared at him resentfully, then dropped his gaze.

"Jim," only a little of the fury dissipated when John addressed me, "Thank you for putting up with us this night. I appreciate it. We'll drive you home and get out of your hair. As soon as Dean gets back."

John had pulled out his wallet and was thumbing through the cash slot. His face went blank. He paused for a moment then reached for a credit card.

"John," I said, "John I live here."

John looked up at me and just for a moment all the fear, the mortification, the uncertainly that hid behind the anger was visible. I took the bill out of his hand.

John scrubbed a hand over his face then stared out the window. Finally he looked around.

"And where the hell is our waitress?"


End file.
